


Trespass

by hartstrings



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Courier Six Takes a Shower, During Canon, F/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Putting the Fun in Dysfunction, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23076814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hartstrings/pseuds/hartstrings
Summary: There was always a line between them. With the second battle of the Dam looming, it grows blurry.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Courier (Fallout), Craig Boone/Female Courier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 96





	Trespass

Dusk.

Another long day was behind them, written in the dust they tracked onto the motel carpet. Orange light striped across the bed, filtering in through the blinds.

They dropped their bags on the worn shag beneath their feet. The Courier waved him off to the bathroom. She’d showered first the last time. Running water was one of the few comforts one had being close to the Strip. As he watched dried blood and grime from the chaos of the day circle the drain, though, Boone found himself missing the quiet of the desert. The Courier must have felt the same way, as they’d spent more time than they should tracking down lodgings as far off the beaten track as they dared.

It’d been almost a year since he’d first seen her through his rifle sights, and the familiarity he had with her habits was a disconcerting one. Worse than being able to tell precisely how his words wounded her was the deep seated guilt he’d felt for it. He wasn’t supposed to care. Bad things happened to people he cared about. The second battle of Hoover Dam was fast approaching, a deadline he was all too aware of - and it seemed to worry the Courier as much as it did him. The two of them were like coiled rattlesnakes, on edge, waiting to strike.

The water felt like a godsend. He rested his forehead against the cool shower tile. Despite it all - despite every part of him screaming to the contrary - he burned for her. It sickened him, not because of who she was - anyone in the Mojave would give an arm to have her on the other - but because of what he’d been.

Boone turned off the water reflexively, putting an end to the path that line of thought inevitably led down. He toweled off, changed, and had his shades on by the time he’d opened the bathroom door.

The Courier drifted past him with her own towel in hand, eager to wash off the day’s memories. He grabbed his rifle and sat at the edge of the bed as he always did - the dance they always had at day’s end.

As he began to check his rifle for loose parts, he noticed that something had changed about their evening ritual. The water was louder.

She’d left the door open.

At first he’d only stolen a glance out of the corner of his eye to make sure something hadn't happened to her. He didn’t expect to meet her eyes - and her hands slowly and deliberately unbuttoning her blouse.

The eye contact was like a paralyzing agent. For months they’d traveled together - tended to the others’ wounds, scrubbed down without privacy, seen more of each other than was maybe appropriate - but it was due to being comrades in arms. She’d never looked at him the way she did now, her pupils blown so wide her irises nearly looked black. The cotton of her blouse rustled as she shrugged it off her shoulders, and suddenly the familiar sight of her skin took on a much different context.

Still, he didn’t move. He tried to glance away, but he felt her eyes on him even when he turned his head. The Courier was watching. Wanted him to watch. Heat rushed through him when her hands skimmed to the waistline of her jeans - men’s - and loosened her belt. Denim slipped down her hips, revealing powerful legs that had him mesmerized from day one. Boone’s own cargo pants felt painfully tight.

Her fingers moved to the clasps of her threadbare bra, but she paused. For a moment he’d thought she’d noticed he’d grown hard, taken offense - but instead her head tilted to the side and her dark curls cascaded over her shoulder.

A questioning look was plain on her face - thick brows furrowed, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. Offering an out. If he was a good man, he’d take it.

Boone wasn’t a good man. He slowly nodded, remembering how to move, and knew that the two of them were doomed.

Plastic clicked, and her chest was exposed to the air. Dark skin graced by the occasional silver scar, soft breasts a stark contrast to her lean and powerful form. Never had he stared, but now he noted which scars he’d been present for, the memory attached to each, trying desperately to smother the fire raging in his mind.

Her underwear came next with little fanfare. It wasn’t a striptease - at least not one you’d get for caps - she had a warrior’s stance, no care for allure or seduction. It was a proud display, the purpose of which he didn’t want to think about. Thinking never led anywhere good for him.

Boone caught sight of the dark curls between her thighs and had to close his eyes before he did something he’d regret. When he opened them, her back was to him and the shower curtains left wide open, streams of water running down her. Her wet hair looked like black silk. 

She scrubbed away the dirt and blood, the curve of her catching the light. When she looked over her shoulder at him to ensure he was still watching his cock twitched.

His heart didn’t pound this hard when they’d found a deathclaw nest. Remaining still was a feat of strength, his mind racing with brief collections of fantasy - her back against his chest, what her hips would feel like beneath his fingertips. Still, he didn’t give in, kept his rifle balanced across his knees. 

The water stopped. She grabbed her towel and ran it over her body, dried her hair. It gave him enough of a reprieve to truly realize what had happened - and what  _ could _ happen.

They’d crossed the line they’d been toeing for weeks. 

Naked she stepped back into the bedroom, towel trailing behind her, loosely clasped in her right hand. She paused at the side of the bed and looked at him seated at the foot of it. The two of them stared at the other. The Courier had to have noticed his cock straining at his pants now - just as he noticed her chest heaving with deep breaths. She was just as on edge as he was. The sunset’s light filtering in through the window made the room seem as if it was on fire, a dream, threatening to consume them both.

Destruction and desire always seemed to come hand in hand.

She didn’t approach him. The Courier seemed to know his limit, and that made him want to overcome it all the more. For so long he’d told himself it was simply lust, but it’d become muddied over time - he didn’t care about sensation, he just wanted to be connected, to feel her warmth, to be as close as they could without becoming one. She knew him. Was the only person in the entire fucking Mojave that knew him. When she laid on the bed and gave him his space he knew he didn’t deserve her, sins or no.   


Another part of their dance - he’d take first watch while she slept behind him. The familiarity took some of the edge off and made it worse all at once.

Boone turned his eyes to the window in front of him, unable to look at her any longer. It would be like looking at the sun, at God himself - before it he was nothing, could only be blinded by the sight. 

But he knew her, too. Some weeks ago he realized they were all the other really had. He'd slept nearly every night over the past year in her presence, soothed fevers, bandaged wounds. He knew every movement of hers by sound alone - knew when her legs fell open, when her foot pushed into the mattress, when her back arched. Knew exactly what she was doing behind him. He palmed himself, unable to ignore the need that threatened to swallow him and desperately trying to avoid doing anything worse, and realized immediately why she’d taken this course of action.

With every movement, every slow stroke, a little more of him was loosened, another small weight lifted from his shoulders. A glorious reprieve as chemicals started to flood his brain, the scattered breathing of the Courier behind him the catalyst.

He needed more almost as much as he needed air, but even with his mind as foggy as it was he knew he couldn’t. Frantically he unzipped his pants and took himself properly in hand, as if it could ever be a substitute for connection with her.

As soon as he did, a sigh escaped her lips. She was still watching him. He nearly came then, half-mad with fantasies of the noises he could pull from her - but he didn’t want the moment to end. Everything had blurred, faded into the background - even the Legion. Together they’d stepped out of time - nothing existed but her breathing, the soft sounds of taking their pleasure alone. Even here the veil between them existed, that foot between her body and his, but somehow they’d found a way to see past it. The steps of their dance had changed, but they were still perfectly synchronized.

His breathing grew as ragged as hers, fatigue settled into his arm - he couldn’t come close to her on his own but was trying desperately to achieve some imitation of the blinding pleasure it would be. Boone attempted to pace himself - the opposite of the few times he’d fucked his fist since they started traveling together - and failed. The Courier was behind him,  _ touching herself to the sight of him _ \- the few minutes he’d managed to salvage were miracle enough.

A growl ripped out of his throat, shivers flowed down his spine. For a brief moment he heard her moan behind him, finally pushing him over the edge - then all sound cut out. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to even breathe as the orgasm tore through his body. When at last it faded, he slumped back on his elbows and gasped for breath.

It didn’t take long for the Courier to join him - he heard her movements quicken, her breathing still - felt her feet brush his arm, legs outstretched, her toes curled - then the choked cry. 

In the haze that descended upon them afterward, bathed in the afterglow and fading sunlight, he wanted nothing more than to turn and gather her into his arms. It was an urge that went beyond primal - spiritual, maybe - and it’d never be fulfilled.

The room smelled of sweat, joining the stale cigarette smoke that already lingered. He wished they were under the stars, wanted to see her above him, haloed by the Milky Way.  


He didn’t know if he could go back to the way they were now. It terrified him.

At last, movement came from behind him. The Courier’s towel landed on his shoulder, reminding him of the mess he’d sprayed across his stomach. He cleaned himself up and pulled off his soiled shirt, tossing it to the floor with the towel.

She was still awake, judging by her breathing - evened out into a steady pace. Still, she said nothing. The mattress shifted as she stood up and changed.   
  
In silence the two of them removed any evidence that anything had happened. The Courier slipped back under the covers, clothed, and he returned to running maintenance on his rifle.

The last part of the dance remained the same.

Sleep took the Courier, and in the small hours of the morning the alarm on her pip-boy went off and she took watch without a word. He fell into unconsciousness, and when he awoke it was to the same sight as always - a pack of trail mix in front of him and the Courier brushing out her hair.

They never spoke of that night.

**Author's Note:**

> My first straight up one shot like this please be kind. Wanted some smut that takes place during the events of the game that still felt in character for Boone so you get this!


End file.
